


Prodigal Father

by chelseagirl



Series: Alias Investigations [5]
Category: Alias Smith and Jones
Genre: Courtroom Drama, F/M, Illegitimacy, Surprises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2019-07-20 09:50:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16134776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chelseagirl/pseuds/chelseagirl
Summary: When a strangely familiar-looking young man turns up at his front door, Hannibal Heyes has to confront the fact that he just might have a son he never knew about . . .





	1. A Stranger Comes to Blue Sky

**Author's Note:**

> If you've come over here from the "Reunion" challenge on the other site, chapter 1 is the equivalent of the story there. However, that was trimmed down from what's here, to create a more focused short piece. (For example, Ella wasn't the only one in the house when Jonathan arrived.) So you might want to read this version of chapter 1 anyway . . .

The noon train arrived in Blue Sky, Montana, and that particular day, only one passenger disembarked. As he left the station, he looked around the main street, trying to get a sense of the place. Funny that someone as famous as Hannibal Heyes would end up living in such a small town, he thought. Wouldn’t he be more at home in a big house somewhere with lots of land? Or else someplace like San Francisco, or Denver, or even Chicago? Well, not Chicago – not Western enough.

But then, maybe he’d had his fill of such things. Or his fill of being recognized in public, now that his picture was out there for all the world to see. Jonathan’s mother had always said . . . well, she’d been showing him Heyes’ picture in the papers ever since he’d gotten amnesty, and the first pictures had appeared. How long ago had that been? The press had had a field day with that, all right. Kid Curry and Hannibal Heyes, who’d never been photographed before, were suddenly depicted all over the newspapers, first by sketches and then, inevitably, in photographs.

“See how handsome he is?” mama had said. “But he was so much younger, back when I . . . well.” At that, she’d blushed slightly, and hadn’t continued.

Walking up Main Street, he was momentarily confused by a sign that said _Chadwick & Heyes, Law Offices._ Surely that would have been news, if the legendary ex-outlaw had become a lawyer? Surely it would be mentioned in the press, from time to time, at least when one of his more notable trials came up.

But just as he was making up his mind to go in and inquire, he looked across the street and down a couple of doors, and there it was: _Heyes & Curry Security Services._ Just like he’d read about. It was puzzling how there were two Heyeses, but he wasn’t going to concern himself about that now.

He was finally going to meet his father.

###

There was a small, somewhat unkempt blond man behind the desk. Surely that wasn’t Kid Curry – if so, the photographs were extremely flattering, and the reality came nowhere near the legend.

“Excuse me,” he said. “I’m looking for Hannibal Heyes.”

“Well now,” drawled the man, “Things were slow at the office today, so he and the Kid’re gone for a ride. Think he’ll probably just head home from there. Y’can’t miss the house – it’s the big white one with the porch that wraps around, just outside of town.”

He thanked the man, and left. Just before the door fell shut behind him, he heard a female voice saying, “Kyle! What were you thinking? You know we don’t give out the bosses’ home address. Especially not to a stranger come in off the street.”

“Sorry, Gloria,” he heard faintly, but the rest of the apology was lost in the small town street noises – the creaking of a wagon, a horse’s snort, a pair of women talking as they walked up the street, marketing baskets in hand.

###

There was no mistaking the house. It was set back from the road, and it was indeed, the biggest house in town. The wraparound porch contained a porch swing and a couple of rocking chairs, situated so that folks could talk together, or read and think separately. It was well-kept and looked like a real home – a place where people were happy. There were flowers planted near the house, and more in hanging baskets on the porch, and behind the house, he saw a small apple orchard. Well, Hannibal Heyes had ended up with a nice life for himself. And that would make it all the easier to ask for what he and his mother were owed. If only it weren’t for those letters, getting her hopes up again.

“He’ll have heard that I’m a widow, now,” she’d said. “He’ll be coming along any day.” The letters kept coming, a trickle, just enough to keep her dreaming. But no visit, and no ticket folded into one of the letters, no invitation. So finally, when he’d come across an article in a newspaper that mentioned the town where the former outlaws were living now, Jonathan had decided it was time to take matters into his own hands.

Up the porch steps, he knocked on the front door. A moment later, it was opened by a blonde woman, tall and slender. He wondered if this was a wife, a sister, a housekeeper. Why had it not occurred to him that Heyes might be married? Those letters. How could a married man have sent them? He must not be so happily married as all that.

The woman held a teacup in one hand. There was something both distracted and slightly imperious about her manner that suggested she was not the housekeeper. “Yes?” she asked, her mind obviously elsewhere. She looked over his shoulder, at a passing wagon. “If you’re here for Francesca, she’s not accepting young male callers at this time. Come back in five years. Maybe four, if you favor higher education for women.” She began to close the door, when she realized he wasn’t departing. She looked a bit confused.

“Ma’am?” he asked. “Does Hannibal Heyes live here?”

And now she looked directly at him for the first time. Her expression didn’t change, but the teacup fell from her hand and smashed on the wooden floor. Tea splashed around her, some of it landing on the skirt of her pale grey dress. “Oh,” she said. “I think you’d better come on in.”

”Ella?” someone called from another room. “Is everything all right?” Another woman came in, holding an infant in her arms. She was strikingly beautiful, and looked to be younger than her companion. Her hair was jet black and, combined with her high cheekbones, suggested that her ancestry was at least part Native. On closer examination, she was clearly expecting another child.

“Sandy, I’m sorry. I know this was the last of the Staffordshire. I’m afraid our visitor here has startled me a little.” She took a deep breath, visibly collecting herself. “I’m sorry – where are my manners? I’m Ella Heyes and this is Alexandra Curry. And this little one is Thaddeus Curry. And I think I can guess why you’re here. Why don’t you have a seat? Sandy, can you bring him some tea, perhaps?”

Wife. Tall to his mother’s short, slender to her curvaceous, fair to her dark. Jonathan looked around the room for evidence of who this woman might be, who’d been chosen instead of his mother. Well, that wasn’t fair – his mother and Hannibal Heyes had parted company well before he was born; Heyes hadn’t even known about him, and since the letters bore no return address and Adelaide had been unable to reply, he still knew little of her current situation. There were books scattered around the room – this woman seemed like she’d be a reader. Her dress was fashionable and clearly of high-quality materials, but less elaborate than the styles his mother had favored, when she could afford them.

Meanwhile, the dark-haired woman settled her child in a cradle pushed up against one of the living room walls, and bustled out. The blonde made her way to the sideboard, where she poured something from a cut-glass decanter into a tumbler. Casting another glance at her visitor, she gave a strained smile, and downed the contents of the glass, very quickly. Then she put it down, picked up a framed photograph, and joined her visitor on the settee.

She handed him the picture, which depicted a couple with a small child. It was the woman herself, and a man who could be no one other than Hannibal Heyes, though this photo was clearer by far than the newspaper photographs he’d seen of him. The child was a girl, no more than three years old, with large dark eyes and dark hair, and features that, even at her young age, echoed her father’s. “This is our daughter Rachel. She died six months after this was taken – it’ll be three years in February. One of those late winter epidemics.” Her dark blue eyes met his brown ones. “While I hardly like to describe my husband in terms of a prize stallion, he certainly seems to breed true.” She looked down at the picture and then back at him. “I’m sorry. That was vulgar of me. This is just . . . unexpected.”

“My name is Jonathan Russell. But my mother tells me by rights it should be Heyes.”

The woman took a deep breath. “By the looks of things, I’d say your mother could be right.

###

When Sandy returned with the tea things, she found the pair of them chatting politely. She could tell from the set of Ella’s shoulders and the slightly artificial brightness to her tone of voice, that she was uncomfortable. Shy Sandy had always admired her older friend’s self-confidence, but as she’d found her own, she’d learned the tells for when Ella’s self-possession was genuine and when it was an act.

Taking Thad up in her arms, she joined them.

“—and then after mother’s husband died, a year and a half ago, we moved to Kansas City. But his business partner cheated her of the money that was coming to her, and I had to leave school to find work.”

Ella nodded.

“And what are you doing now?” Sandy asked.

“Well, ma’am, I was ‘prenticed to an apothecary, but after my mother’d sold all her jewelry, there was no money to pay the fees. He let me stay on, but I do a lot more sweeping of floors and making deliveries now. He teaches me when he finds the time, but he’s got another paying apprentice who does most of the interesting work.”

Sandy opened her mouth to ask another question, but just then, there was the sound of booted footsteps on the porch. The front door opened, and a young woman entered.

The girl was younger than he, in her middle teens, by the look of it. Could she be his sister? She was dressed in men’s trousers and riding boots, and a warm jacket with a lace-trimmed white blouse underneath. “Sorry we’re a little late. We had such a lovely ride! And then we stopped off on our way back from the livery to get a few things. I’ll run upstairs and get changed.” She walked almost like a boy, with an assertive stride, but Jonathan noticed that she was quite pretty. “Who’s this?” she asked, catching sight of him. Just then, the two men behind her entered the room.

“Franky, dear, this is Jonathan Russell. Jonathan, this is my ward, Francesca Bird.” Not his sister, then. Unless he wasn’t the only one, and Hannibal Heyes had been leaving offspring scattered around in his wake. “And I suspect you’ll have recognized Jedediah Curry and Hannibal Heyes from their pictures in the papers. Darling, this is Jonathan. I think you’ll guess what he’s come here to talk about.”

The blond man turned to his friend, a look of astonishment on his handsome face. “Heyes, he looks like—“

But he broke off, as Hannibal Heyes stopped and stared, frozen in place, as though he was seeing a ghost of his younger self.

More than the newspaper photos, more even than the stiffly posed portrait Mrs. Heyes had showed him. Here he was, right in the same room as his father. Jonathan felt dizzy. Setting aside the difference in age, he could have been looking into a mirror.

Sandy swept her husband into the kitchen after her, and Ella took the staring Franky not-so-gently by the arm and drew her along to the library, at the back of the house.

###

Heyes and Jonathan were alone.

The resemblance was remarkable. Heyes looked at the boy’s dark eyes and heavy, well-defined brows and his thick, dark-brown hair, worn a little shorter than Heyes wore his own. He was slender and of middle height, perhaps an inch or so shorter than the older man. He had the square face, the small nose, the wide mouth and well-defined cheekbones. Heyes suspected that if he ever relaxed enough to smile, he’d even have dimples.

When Rachel was alive, before it hurt too much to talk about it, they used to joke about how much his little daughter had resembled him, even at her early age. The rather crude remark about Heyes breeding true had been bandied about more than once, though only in private.

There was no point in denying that Jonathan Russell was his son, saving a remarkable coincidence. “You are how old?” he asked.

“Seventeen last month,” said the boy.

Seventeen. Heyes was thirty-eight now, so he’d have been about twenty-one when the boy was born. Not yet the leader of the Devil’s Hole Gang, but already an outlaw. Twenty, twenty-one when he’d impregnated the boy’s mother. From time to time, he’d wondered idly if maybe he had left a piece of himself behind somewhere, and Jonathan’s appearance certainly seemed to confirm it.

But who could the mother be? He’d confined his attentions, in those days, to saloon girls and to the occasional experienced widow – women who knew how to manage these things. Women who knew, bluntly, how to prevent conception. At least, so he’d assumed. Had there been an innocent farmer’s daughter? No, he’d tried to steer clear of such involvements – more successfully than the Kid, he thought. But the Kid was better at knowing just how far he could go with the more respectable young ladies. He’d lost his heart far more often than Heyes had, but he had also been better at keeping the two things separate.

Anyway, they hadn’t been together then. When Heyes was twenty, twenty-one, Jed had left him for a time, longing for a more honest life, a more stable one. Left on his own, he’d drifted from one thing to another, riding for awhile with Jim Plummer’s gang. He racked his memory, trying to think who the mother could have been. . . . 

He looked at the boy. “I’m really sorry, Jonathan, but . . . could you tell me your mother’s name?”

Jonathan was clearly taken aback by the question. “Adelaide Russell. Would have been Adelaide Peterson when you knew her. But she said you never knew her real name. Not back then. The name she went by, in those days, was Misty Rose. But you know that now – the letters you’ve been sending.”

And suddenly, Heyes remembered. Misty Rose, new to the saloon trade. Young and beautiful and too innocent for the world she’d entered. Had turned to the work after her family all died of influenza, in one of the periodic outbreaks that could sweep a region, and she the only one surviving. She’d lost the farm and had nowhere to go, no other way to survive. She was more the Kid’s type, if he’d been there – naive and impressionable and very romantic. That was too likely to lead to complications for Heyes’s taste, ordinarily. But she had seemed to understand what her work at the saloon entailed. She was lovely and eager, and she’d taken a fancy to him, so for a summer, when the Plummer gang had gone to ground not far from the saloon where she worked, he’d availed himself of her favors. Might have even let her think she’d touched his heart more than she actually had, because it helped him with the story he was creating about himself. He’d liked to imagine himself as the outsider, the outlaw driven to doing wrong by the wrongs society had done to him. Years later, when his wife had introduced him to the writings of Lord Byron, he saw his youthful self-delusions echoed in the heroes of the man’s poetry.

He'd even written her a regrettable farewell letter, which Ella would have called Byronic, if she’d known about it. And he had an uncomfortable feeling that she was going to know about it, and soon.

Jonathan returned to the subject of the letters. “But why did you start writing her again, then?”

“Writing her again? Jonathan, I’m afraid I hadn’t thought about your mother in years, ‘til just now. I didn’t even know her real name, much less where to find her. If I’d have known about you, I would have sent money. Tried to get to know you – at least since I’ve been straight with the law. But I wouldn’t be sending your mother love letters. I’m sorry to say it, but I barely remembered her until you showed up.” He turned his glance towards the door to the other room. “Strange as it still sometimes sounds to me to say it, I’m a happily married man. And I have been for the last seven years.”

Jonathan frowned. “But you can find things out, like the Bannermans do. There’ve been stories in the papers about some of the things you and your partner have found out for your clients. And why do the letters tell all kinds of things only you and ma could know? Why have you been promising her a future?”

“But I haven’t. I’m sorry if someone’s been playing some kind of a cruel joke on your mother, Jonathan. Look, I see the resemblance between us. My partner and my wife see it, too. And the numbers add up. I’d like to get to know you. But I’m not gonna be courting your mother.”

Jonathan shook his head. “I was hoping . . . that is, she’s been so certain that . . . we’re at the end of our . . . well.”

Heyes gave a rueful smile. “I’m sorry you’re not finding the answer you were looking for. If there’s anything I can do to help, I will. But I can’t promise what I’m not free to give.”

“Mother’s not quite rational about this. She seems to think you’ve made some promises. Well, the letters you see, and . . . she’s talking about seeing a lawyer about it. Just to bring you back to your senses, she says.”

“Lawyers, eh? Well, that could be . . .” Heyes faltered for a moment, a strained smile playing across his lips. “Could be real awkward.”

They fell silent, neither quite knowing what to say next. Shortly afterwards, Alexandra Curry came back into the room, inviting Jonathan to stay for dinner, at least, and for the night, if it suited his purposes.

Confused, Jonathan declined and took his leave shortly afterwards. He thought regretfully about the pretty tomboy, whom he’d learned was safely not related to him, but he had too much thinking to do, and needed to be alone.


	2. It's a Legal Matter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jonathan discovers why there's a law firm in town called Chadwick and Heyes, when it's clear Hannibal Heyes is no lawyer.

Jonathan returned to Blue Sky about a month later, to meet with the lawyers. He’d gotten over his initial disappointment at not having brought his parents together. He found some comfort in the notion that Heyes had clearly never known of his existence until that day, and that he wanted to establish a relationship with Jonathan, if not with his mother. But Adelaide had not changed her opinion at all – the letters had convinced her of the former outlaw’s undying passion, and she regarded the existence of a wife as a minor impediment compared to true love which spanned nearly two decades. Those letters. Having met the man had gone a long way to convincing Jonathan that Heyes hadn’t written them.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t charming – he was. But he didn’t seem particularly romantic. And Jonathan saw the concern with which the man had looked at his wife, aiming to see how shaken she was by the news. If Hannibal Heyes loved anyone, surely it was the woman he’d married.

However, the lawyer had been hired, and things set in motion. Adelaide Russell was a very determined woman, and also a desperate one, as their funds were dwindling rapidly. Jonathan had tried to convince his mother that it was unnecessary for her to come along to these negotiations. He wanted to spare her the pain of rejection, the pain of whatever this was that was happening. But she’d insisted.

Adelaide was plump now, in an appealing way, and quite a handsome woman for her age, which was after all, not that advanced. Her dark hair held not a trace of gray, and her green eyes were large and lovely. Jonathan’s stepfather had adored her, and indulged her in every way, from jewelry to fine restaurants to lavish compliments. “I was a beauty when I was your age,” she used to tell her son, especially after her second glass of sherry. “When I met your father, your real father . . . well, it’s no wonder he fell in love with me, back in those days. I hope he won’t be too disappointed, seeing me again.” She’d reassure herself in the looking glass. “He’s seventeen years older as well, after all.”

The jewelry had all gone now, to pay for living expenses and for Jonathan’s apprenticeship. Until the money ran out and after Blaine Hanford had done what he’d done. Kansas City had been a mistake. They’d hoped for a fresh start, but it had been more expensive and with few opportunities for either the widow or her son.

Jonathan wondered if he was imagining things, but Blue Sky looked a little bit more hostile this time. It was a pretty little town, for a frontier town, so it must be his mood. He ushered his mother off the train, giving her his arm, as she looked around warily. She was much shorter than her son. Come to think of it, she was also much shorter than that blonde Mrs. Heyes, who was nearly as tall as her husband. Well, he didn’t expect to see her at the meeting, and probably not his father, either. This was a matter for the lawyers, primarily. They were only along because Adelaide had insisted, and because Jonathan didn’t quite trust that their lawyer would protect his mother’s interests.

Someone in Kansas City had recommended a lawyer in Helena, a Harvard Law graduate of all things, and fairly new to practicing out West. But . . . a Harvard Law graduate. Jonathan and Adelaide had been corresponding with him, via letter and telegram, for a month now, and they’d met with him in Helena a few days earlier to prepare him for this meeting.

The meeting was held in the law offices of Chadwick & Heyes. At least his curiosity would finally be satisfied. He ushered his mother inside, to find his lawyer speaking with a tall man, with green eyes, a mop of curly hair, and an aquiline nose.

Introductions were made all around. The tall man introduced himself as Jeremy Chadwick. Well, there was no family resemblance, really. So who might this other Heyes be? Jonathan had, of course, read everything he could find about Hannibal Heyes, and though some of it was dime novel exaggeration, it seemed to be accepted fact that Heyes was the only one of his immediate family to have survived the border wars. And surely, if there’d been an older, acknowledged son, that would have come up during their last . . . conversation? Confrontation?

And then she entered, and he realized he’d been looking at the truth all along and hadn’t seen it. Ella Heyes was wearing a plain but well-cut black jacket and skirt, with a white shirtwaist. In place of the gracious but obviously uncomfortable lady he’d met a few weeks back, here was a cold-eyed professional with a deliberately neutral expression.

“Good to see you again, Jonathan, though I am sorry it’s under these circumstances. I will clearly not be involved in these proceedings as an attorney, since I am an interested party. However, I did want to see you and meet your mother and see if we could come to some sort of an understanding.” She turned to Adelaide and introduced herself.

Adelaide did not respond to the greeting, but simply narrowed her eyes. “No understanding. He was mine first, and his letters prove that he loves me still. He’s too kind to ask you for a divorce, obviously.”

Her lawyer attempted to quiet her, finally convincing her to take a seat and reassuring her. “Just leave things to me . . . “

Mrs. Heyes did not reply, but sat there silently, expressionlessly. Jonathan watched her coolly evaluate the woman who had borne her husband a son.

Her partner, Jeremy Chadwick, spoke instead. “My client has stipulated to accepting paternity, based on the circumstances including timing of conception, his whereabouts during that time period, and his admitted patronage of Mrs. Russell’s professional services.”

“How dare you!” Adelaide exclaimed. “My professional services? We were in love!”

Again, her lawyer attempted to quiet her. Jonathan heard Mrs. Heyes say quietly to her partner, “Well, I suppose he has a pattern. He meets women through their work.”

She saw Jonathan staring at her and explained, “We met in my carrying out of this profession – I got him out of jail. More than once, actually.”

Well, that did make sense, Jonathan reflected. A handy sort of wife for someone like Hannibal Heyes, really. And he liked her self-control. It could not have been easy for a woman, to meet her husband’s bastard, and to hear the things their lawyer was going to allege. That Adelaide was likely to proclaim, probably dramatically. Ella Heyes had treated him kindly, once she realized he wasn’t in pursuit of her young ward. He just hoped his mother could control herself. Poor thing – after the way Blaine had treated her, and then having her hopes raised again and now dashed. He was torn between his embarrassment at her very visible emotions and his sympathy for her.

“Further, my client has offered to provide Jonathan Russell with financial assistance, either settling him in business or helping him to continue his apprenticeship or even his education.”

Adelaide looked surprised, and nodded her acceptance, with seeming gratitude. Jonathan was pleased to see her putting his needs ahead of her romance, imagined or otherwise. And he’d always take care of her.

The lawyer continued, unconsciously running a hand through his mop of curly hair. “My client has further expressed the desire, to establish a relationship with his alleged son.”

Adelaide remained silent at this, deferring to her son.

“I would like that, if matters can be settled to everyone’s satisfaction,” he said.

His lawyer nodded agreement.

Jeremy Chadwick continued. “However, we find no legal grounds for breach of promise when our client is already, and has been for these past seven years, a married man.”

Adelaide’s lawyer, who up to this point had been exercising restraint, rolled his eyes. “Fraud, for one. Intent to deceive. If you think I can’t come up with grounds in a situation like this, you are sorely mistaken, especially when the defendant is a notorious outlaw and con artist. We’ll see you in court.”

“Seriously?” asked Chadwick, in what Jonathan could not help but notice was an incredulous tone. “Mister Heyes is willing to be more than generous. You are well aware of the auspices under which his earlier relationship with Mrs. Russell took place.”

The other lawyer rolled his eyes. “People who live in the Crystal Palace should not throw stones. If you’re going to impugn Mrs. Russell’s morality, consider who your client is. What was it they said about him and his partner? ‘The most successful outlaws the West had ever known’, wasn’t it?”

“Who’s been living an honest life for a decade, nearly,” Chadwick shot back.

“You know as well as I do, Jeremy, that a leopard never changes its spots.”

“You’d be surprised, Tommy, sorry, Thomas. You’d be very surprised.”

Jonathan shook his head. So close. If only his mother could have given up her romantic dream. His mother had been, after that regrettably necessary time as a saloon girl in her youth, a wealthy merchant’s wife, and it had suited her. He suspected that Hannibal Heyes, at least since he’d been an honest man, could not have given his mother the life she’d wanted. Or at least, by his choice of this small town as his home, wouldn’t have been interested in that life. The house he’d seen was tastefully, but simply, furnished. The wife was dressed well, but quietly. Jonathan’s mother had been the darling of a man who loved to lavish gifts on her, and let her live according to her whim.

On his previous visit, he recalled, when he’d asked someone on the street for directions to the big white house on the edge of town, that passerby had referred to it as “the old Hart house.” And now he could not help but notice a framed certificate proclaiming that Ella Hart was a member of the bar of the territory (old certificate) of Montana, paired with one that named Ella Heyes likewise of Colorado. So the big white house came from the wife’s family.

“We’ll see you in court,” said his lawyer, and stormed out, followed closely by Adelaide.

Jonathan looked helplessly at Ella Heyes.

She gave a sympathetic smile. “Your lawyer probably didn’t mention that he and my partner used to get into fistfights regularly at boarding school back East, did he?”

He shook his head again. “No. He mentioned Harvard a lot.”

“He does that. I’m sorry.” She paused for a moment. “I can recommend several attorneys over in Helena who’ll fight for you, but won’t treat Jeremy like a schoolyard rival. Very professional – they won’t take it easy on us just because of the referral.”

“I don’t think mother will . . . she likes that he went to Harvard. And she wouldn’t trust your recommendations, anyway.”

“I can understand that. But, Jonathan, whatever comes of this, I hope you’ll . . . That is.” She fell silent.

He looked at her, seeing her hesitate.

“We’ve been married seven years. In that time, I’ve had one child, and that child died young. And I don’t want my husband to lose out on having you in his life. Please, whatever the outcome of this is, don’t walk away forever.”

And now he couldn’t quite meet her eyes. “Can I ask you something very personal? As to why there haven’t been any others.”

She blushed an interesting shade of bright pink, and looked determinedly away from him. “Nothing is . . . lacking in our marriage, if that’s what you mean. The doctors say it’s just the way of things, sometimes.” She paused. “Do you have any half-brothers and sisters, from your mother’s marriage to the late Mr. Russell?”

He shook his head. “No. Mother was a bit . . . after what she had to do when she was younger. Father . . . Paul . . . he understood. He was . . . considerate.”

She nodded, taking that in. “Look, they call our legal system adversarial for a reason. It may be rough. Thomas Stratton, he’s got a problem with Jeremy, and I’m sorry you’re caught in the middle of it. I wish I could take the case myself, but obviously . . . I’ll be called on to testify, of course. But, please. Don’t let anything that happens in the courtroom ruin things for you and Heyes. Please.”

“I’d like . . . I’d like to get to know him. But, Mrs. Heyes--“

“Ella, please.”

“Ella. Why do you call your husband by his last name?”

“The alternative is Hannibal.”

“I see your point.” And for the first time, he smiled at her.

She couldn’t help but notice it was his father’s smile, exactly.

###

Ella came home from the office late in the afternoon, but it was clear she was bringing work home with her. As soon as she could disentangle herself from Sandy and household concerns, she invited Heyes into the library and closed the door.

She produced a single sheet of paper. “Want to tell me about this? It’s a fair copy they made, as part of discovery, but they had to let me see the original, and the handwriting is definitely yours.”

Heyes barely remembered the regrettable missive, mostly the emotions he’d felt on composing it. And those emotions were all about his misunderstood self, and not at all about Misty Rose, except for wondering how his deep and meaningful words felt for her when she read them, whether it had been as emotionally wrenching for her as for him.

What a conceited young idiot he’d been.

_Misty:_

_It’s time for me to move on. I will miss your lovely smile, your sweetness, your embrace. But destiny, and cruel fate, call me onwards. I will not see you again, but will forever hold you in my heart. Ever yours, H.“_

He’d said almost nothing, but there was enough in his dreadfully stilted prose for her to build a delusion on, especially once she’d discovered she was carrying his child – he couldn’t help wonder if she’d neglected the usual precautions in hopes of securing him as a husband. He put it down, disgusted at the words. Words that were out of character for him. But not for the role he’d been playing.

Ella wrinkled her nose. “Ewww.”

“I was very young.”

“I’m not sure even youth is an excuse for writing that bad. Well, at least you didn’t tell her that you loved her,” she said, wryly. “I think we were married a couple of years before you admitted that you loved me.”

He looked at her. “You knew.”

“Funny that the one thing the silver-tongued charmer doesn’t talk about is real feelings.”

“Or not,” he pointed out. “I’m used to manipulating people with my words, so when something’s real, well. It’s hard to say. Kinda get concerned that anyone who really knows me, also knows how easily I could be spinning a tale. Well, you know – you with what you do in the courtroom.”

She nodded. “We’re each just as bad as the other.”

“I was young and stupid and I was sure that no one would ever really understand me.”

“I imagine you wore a lot of black then. To show you were a bad man. And kind of . . . never so much stood still as posed.”

Heyes snorted with laughter. “Sounds like we must’ve run into each other. Black and silver. My hat’s the last echo of that.”

“I was just as bad. I was an overly dramatic nineteen year old when my fiancé died, and I didn’t come out of mourning until I was twenty three. My mother finally told me I was disinvited to Rosa’s wedding unless I wore the dress she’d laid out for me. It was a kind of dusty rose pink – she’d had it made behind my back. First time I’d worn a color other than black since the day Billy died.”

“You missed him.”

“A lot. But I used to read and reread William Cullen Bryant’s ghastly “Thanatopsis” and try to sound all profound about it. Thank god at least I found Keats.”

“I’m right there alongside you. I was the deep-feeling bad man. I had plenty of good times with the gang, mind you, but there was a part of me that stood apart, brooding about the injustice of it all. How I had crossed to the wrong side of the law because of what had been done to my family, as though fate had willed it.”

“Byron.”

“Byron. I couldn’t believe it when you handed me that book. Opened it up, and It’s like someone had written a guidebook for that twenty year old outlaw I’d been.” He paused. “Poetry’s still not my thing, but I’m not wrong to say that he’s not . . . really that good of a poet, is he? Byron, I mean.”

“More of a storyteller. And a personage. Whitman’s a better poet.” She smiled.

“That was the best gift you ever gave me, that Whitman book. Besides yourself, of course.” And . . . but he was not going to mention Rachel. “Whitman gave me hope at a time when I was feeling pretty hopeless.” He turned his attention back to the letter. “So, we argue that this was just hot air?”

“Well, we don’t want to call attention to your inherent dishonesty. But the follies of youth, and its absolute pretentiousness and self-importance.”

“Sounds like you’re gonna make me out a bit of a fool.”

“No more than any of us are at twenty. Anyway, it can’t be me. It’ll be Jeremy handling the whole thing.”

He nodded, showing his understanding. “But what’s this about other letters?”

“That’s the thing. Apparently, you started writing to her again, a couple of years ago. After the amnesty. Before her husband’s death, a little, and much more intensively afterwards. Telling her that you had always missed her, that you loved her, that you were coming back for her.”

“And that wasn’t me.”

“Clearly. I’ve seen the handwriting and it’s nothing like yours.”

He just looked at her, his brown eyes unreadable. “How about the fact that I had a wife, already? One who I kinda like . . . usually.”

“Obvious to you – but it’s a matter of what’s legally dispositive, what’s admissible as evidence, and the kind of thing that’ll influence a jury. What’s more important, alas, than your enduring devotion to me, is the handwriting. Also, that there are things in the letters that you’d have no way of knowing, like about Jonathan, and her real name, and where she’d been all those years.”

He frowned. “I’m kinda well known, aren’t I? Haven’t folks heard that I’m married?”

“Apparently I didn’t make it into any of the dime novels. Pity – the lovely and determined lady lawyer swooping in to save our intrepid outlaw heroes – now that’s a story. When you got the amnesty, I wasn’t yet officially in the picture, as you might recall. And then you faded from the public eye, except for now and again. The only time I might’ve made the national news is when some papers carried the Kid’s trial down in New Mexico. That nice journalist from New York City interviewed me then.”

“Yeah, Rob Harris. He was gonna do a book about us, but it just turned into a series of articles. He got promoted to head of the city desk or something at his paper, never had time to finish the book.”

“Case should be open and shut. The problem’s Harvard.”

“Harvard? Like that college back East?”

“Harvard’s what I call Thomas Stratton, because he went to school there, and is keen that everyone should know it. Jeremy’s old boarding school nemesis. They used to have fistfights on a regular basis, apparently. So Harvard’s practicing in Helena now, and just can’t bear to think that his Harvard-educated self could possibly lose a case to someone who learned his law through a clerkship, and that, under a mere woman!”

“What’s he doin’ in Helena?”

She shrugged. “His father had some investments out here, he came out along with dad and liked it. I think his wife has weak lungs, and the air’s purer in Montana. Or some such thing. When he heard about this case and figured it was a way to embarrass Jeremy’s law partner and therefore Jeremy, well . . . It’s a grudge match, and I don’t like it. Maybe we should get Art Pritchard to represent you instead.”

“Why would I want anyone but you and Jeremy in my corner? You two are the only lawyers that really know me.” 

“Well, us and Chester Brubaker, down in New Mexico.” She winked.

“Honey, I’ve told you, he means nothing to me.” Heyes smiled, and after a moment, so did Ella. Chester Brubaker, in person or in name only, had been present at some fairly significant milestones in their relationship.

“Now, let’s take a look at these letters. I think you’ll be surprised at how passionately you feel about Misty Rose, or rather Adelaide, after all these years.”

“Think I’m gonna need a stiff whiskey for this, honey. Can I get you anything?” He rose to go to the front parlor, where the drinks lived in cut glass decanters on the sideboard. That still struck Heyes as overly fussy, even after all these years. But he recognized the alternative was probably for them to be in a cupboard somewhere in the house, and nobody remembering which one, so he’d accepted it.

“Port, please. You realize, all these years of being married to you never drove me to drink, but your son’s doing a good job of it.”

The brown eyes widened in mock-surprise and the heavy brows lifted. “I’m shocked to discover my wife is actually human.”

“Shhh. I wouldn’t want it to get out.” Her expression turned serious. “But, whatever happens, I don’t want you to lose the chance to know Jonathan. Since we both know I’m not likely to be giving you any more children, and . . .”

He wanted to reassure her, to tell her it didn’t matter. That she was the only woman he’d ever met he could see himself making a life with. All of which was true. But he had to admit, spending time with little Thaddeus had made him wish for another of his own.

So instead, he said nothing, but handed her the glass.


	3. Disorder in the Court

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A trial, and a surprise.

The trial took place in Helena, some months later.

Judge Ferguson frowned. “I don’t understand why this is even going to trial. Defendant is willing to stipulate to paternity and to pay for the boy’s education.”

Jeremy Chadwick looked down from his significant height and shrugged. “Plaintiff refuses to negotiate.”

The judge looked further down the documents. “Breach of promise is obviously absurd when defendant is already married.”

“Fraud, your honor,” said Thomas Stratton. “The documents have been amended. There may be no breach of promise, but certainly there was an intent to defraud. And defendant has offered to pay for the boy’s education, but what about what else he is owed?”

“Plaintiff’s late husband was wealthier by far than my client,” Jeremy snapped.

Ferguson shook his head. It was going to be one of those trials. Maybe it would be easier, as Chadwick’s partner had suggested, if they just let the two lawyers fight it out, on the green in front of the courthouse. And considering Chadwick’s partner was also the defendant’s wife, if she thought so . . . .

###

The first snag they hit was when the letters were introduced into evidence. Plaintiff attested they were from the defendant. She just knew.

Defendant explained patiently that the handwriting was nothing like his, and samples were brought into evidence.

But then, there was the reading of the letters. Defendant was called to the stand, and admitted to writing the earliest letter, and then apologized politely to the plaintiff for having done so, with some rather pointed references to having been “a youthful idiot.”

Plaintiff seemed puzzled by the apology, and also somewhat overwhelmed by defendant’s presence in the courtroom.

Next, Stratton proposed reading the remainder of the letters.

“Do we really need to subject the courtroom to this?” asked Chadwick, testily. “Can’t the jurors simply be given the letters to read?”

It turned out that one of the jurors had not been entirely accurate about his level of ability to read, having assumed that being able to sign his own name meant he was literate. Another suffered from failing vision, and preferred not to attempt to read documents unless they were printed.

_My Angel,_ read the first, _scarcely a day has passed since our parting years ago when I have not dreamed of you . . ._

The reading went on for some time, until, counsel for the defense having objected for the third time, Judge Ferguson finally sustained the objection. “I think, Mister Stratton, that the jury has had a sufficient sample of the documents in question.”

Called to the stand by Stratton, Heyes of course denied authorship, and refused to be rattled by the lawyer’s trickiest questions.

Jonathan looked concernedly at his mother, who was gazing at the man on the stand with rapt adoration, almost as though she had no idea that he was refuting her claim to be beloved by him.

The trial continued on. The general public is always puzzled by the notion that legal proceedings are less than riveting, trials especially. The sad reality is that courtroom drama is rare, and courtroom tedium, more often the rule.

The prosecution finally having concluded its case, the defense was asked to call any of its own witnesses. To nobody’s surprise, the defendant’s wife was asked to take the stand. By law, a wife was unable to testify against her husband, but counsel for the defense made a motion, explaining that in this case, the wife had no intention of testifying against her husband.

Judge Ferguson was well acquainted with Mrs. Heyes in her professional capacity, and saw no reason why she shouldn’t take the stand. At least, he thought to himself, there was finally the chance of someone involved with this ridiculous case comporting themselves like a grownup.

That was the theory, anyway.

Having taken the oath and identified herself to the court, Ella submitted to questioning. It felt less peculiar, she thought, being questioned by Jeremy than perhaps it ought to, because of all the practice sessions they’d done together for their various trials over the years.

“Could you tell us when you first met Hannibal Heyes?”

“He and Jedediah Curry become my clients on,” she mentioned a specific date, gleaned from the meticulous records she kept of her past cases. “A bounty hunter had brought them in, hoping to turn them in for the reward that still existed for both of them at that time. I managed to get them out.”

“And when you married him?”

Again, she gave a date – this one, she hadn’t had to look up in preparation.

“And the birth of your daughter Rachel?”

“Objection,” she said. “Irrelevance.”

The judge banged his gavel. “Mrs. Heyes, I recognize this is not your usual role in court, but please remember that a witness is not permitted to object to a line of questioning.”

Jeremy repeated the question.

She supplied a date, about five months after the wedding.

“So at the time of your marriage to Mr. Heyes, you were already expecting a child.”

She glared at her questioner. “I believe the jury is capable of counting for themselves.”

“That’s a yes, then.”

He then put a series of questions to her, which she mostly answered with yeses and nos, as any witness who knows anything about the trial process will do. They established that the couple had continued to live together. There had been no further children, but they were widely regarded to have and in fact, did have, a happy marriage. That, sadly, their daughter had died several years earlier.

Stratton now took his place for cross-exam. “Mrs. Heyes, it seems that what you are saying is that your entire marriage has been founded on a lie. You began by helping your future husband to defraud the law, you learned his true identity but kept it to yourself, despite the fact that he was a wanted criminal, and you married him in order to legitimize your child.”

“Our child,” she emphasized. “His and mine. Ought I to have not married him and let my daughter enjoy all the advantages of illegitimacy?” She glanced apologetically at Jonathan. “And my duty, in the case which first brought us together, was to my client. I am certain they teach about attorney-client privilege at Harvard.”

He continued to badger her, but she reverted to brief words and phrases, supplying answers but giving away nothing.

Finally, he turned to the jury, gave them a look, and then turned back to the witness. “It is notable that Mrs. Russell began to receive letters from Hannibal Heyes just around the time of your daughter’s death. When the reason for your sham of a marriage was removed, and he felt free to pursue his true love, from happier times.”

Jeremy intervened. “Objection. Counsel is framing his questions in inappropriate terms,” he said.

“Sustained.”

She stared her interlocutor right in the face. “Perhaps the author of the letters chanced to see Rachel’s obituary in the Denver papers. That’s where we were living, at the time of her death.”

“And isn’t it true that, five months after your daughter’s death, you left for Europe and were gone for six months?”

“Two months of a lecture tour in Great Britain, and then another four of travel there, and in France, Switzerland, and Italy afterwards. I sincerely doubt I will ever have such an opportunity again, and my husband and I agreed that I should take advantage of it while I could.”

“This trip was taken without your husband?”

“His business interests prevented it. He encouraged me to go because he thought, as I did, that a change of scenery might do me good. I had been despondent as a result of Rachel’s death. And I was writing novels at the time, so my publishers arranged it.”

“And did you have any notion of the fact that, during your absence, his thoughts and affections returned to Mrs. Russell?”

“Objection,” said Jeremy. “Leading question.”

“Sustained.”

Ella took a deep breath. “Your honor, must I put up with this nonsense?”

“The court sympathizes, but opposing counsel will be permitted to rephrase the question.” Ferguson looked severely at Stratton. “In a less offensive manner.”

“Were you aware that your extended absence put a strain on your relationship?”

“I neither had knowledge of that fact, nor do I believe it to be true.” Lying just a little bit under oath, she reflected, but certainly the strain had had nothing to do with Adelaide Russell, and everything to do with it, well, being an extended absence.

“Have you seen the letters?’

“Yes. None except the original are in my husband’s handwriting, as others have already testified.”

“Are you aware of the content of the letters?”

“I am.”

“Are you aware that you had lost your husband’s affections?”

“Untrue,” she said, and suddenly turned an interesting shade of green. Covering her hand with her mouth, she ran out of the courtroom.

###

Ella was seated in the judge’s chambers, drinking a glass of water, and attempting to collect herself enough to return to the stand. Heyes sat by her, his expression concerned, while Jed Curry paced behind him.

“You all right, now?”

“I think . . . that is, if I’m not mistaken . . . I hadn’t wanted to hope, after all this time. But now I’m pretty sure . . . .“ She instinctively raised a hand to her midsection.

“You’re not saying?” Heyes’ dark eyes widened.

“Nature has a peculiar sense of humor.” She made a face. “Seven years, and it happens now.”

For once in his life, Hannibal Heyes was speechless. Behind him, Kid Curry just smiled.

The door opened and Jeremy walked in. “Good news. Plaintiffs have agreed to accept our original offer. Mrs. Russell has been persuaded that perhaps someone’s handwriting doesn’t change quite that much, even in seventeen years. But it was the way you rushed after Ella, Heyes, that really convinced her.”

“Good to hear,” said Ella, “about her change of heart.” She looked inquiringly at Heyes, who nodded.

“All right then,” said Jeremy. “And congratulations, by the way.”

“How did he know?” Heyes looked suspiciously at the pair of lawyers. “Did you tell _him_ before you were gonna tell me, Ella? I know you two are partners and all, but I wouldn’t tell the Kid about something like _that_ before I talked about it with you.”

And Jeremy Chadwick laughed. “Apparently you’re forgetting the last time you were ‘round to our house for dinner? Week before last? Those five young terrors who wouldn’t stop asking you to tell stories of the old days on the outlaw trail and Jed to show them some fancy target shooting? I’ve been waiting for the past few weeks for Ella to say something. When you’ve been through this as many times as Melanie and I have . . . you can tell the signs pretty early on.”

###

“So you’re gonna be all right?” Hannibal Heyes looked at his son, his expression betraying more uncertainty than he generally allowed anyone to see.

Jonathan tucked the envelope into his inside pocket. “This is plenty to complete my apprenticeship. And a fair amount of the bills we’ve fallen behind on.”

“And your mother?”

“She’s . . . fragile. I think she always was. She’s the last person who should ever have had to do what she did to survive, when she was younger. But now that she’s been forced to accept that the letters weren’t really from you, I think it will be easier for her to move on.” Jonathan looked over to where his mother was flirting with the railroad conductor, as well as a fellow-passenger, both of them staring at her with rapt attention and obvious admiration. “I wouldn’t be surprised if I have another new stepfather in a year or two.”

“She’s still awfully pretty,” Heyes said, tentatively. “What about the letters?”

“I have a suspicion about that,” said Jonathan. “Father’s business partner always resented Mother. Blaine and my stepfather were very close, and I think he took his death even harder than she did. I think he hated her for being allowed to mourn, when his,” he looked Heyes straight in the eyes, “when his heart was broken, too. And we all used to joke a bit about Mother’s often-voiced youthful passion. For you. But the letters have got to stop now – that’s the one good thing about this whole ridiculous . . . .”

“Not the only good thing.” The dark eyes looked a little haunted. “I know you, now.”

“I’ll write. When she’s a little more settled, I’ll come visit if you’ll have me.”

The older man nodded, his silver tongue stilled for once. He thought about what he’d said to Ella – that it was different when the feelings were real. So he simply said, “Please.”

Jonathan smiled. “Wish Ella well for me. I hope everything goes smoothly with the baby.”

“You might’ve noticed my wife’s not exactly the most . . . domesticated. But she loved our Rachel, and it’s really bothered her that she hadn’t . . . well, that it didn’t look like there was gonna be another one.”

“I like her. You two are well suited. Much more than you and my mother ever could have been.”

Heyes’ eyes widened a little bit. “No one’s ever said that before. Usually it’s ‘but she’s such a lady and you’re still an outlaw at heart’ or ‘you met because she was your WHAT?’ or occasionally,” and now his smile widened, too, “‘what on earth possessed you to marry a woman who can’t cook?’”

Jonathan laughed, and before Heyes knew what was happening, his son’s arms were around him for a quick moment. “Goodbye . . . Father.” He paused, as he broke the embrace. “It’s all right that I call you that, now?”

“It’s . . . yes. Please.”

And his son let go. “I’ll look forward to meeting my new little brother or sister.” And ran to catch his train, but at the door, looked back and waved.

Kid Curry came and joined his partner. “That go well?”

“Better than I deserve.”

And now the blue eyes had a faraway look. “Can’t help but wonder – after all, I was always the ladies’ man, of the two of us – if I’ve got one out there, too.”

“Aren’t little Thad and the new one gonna be enough for you?”

“Just saying. If I have, I hope he finds me someday. Or she does.” A sudden look of alarm. “You realize our wives are both expecting at the same time? And your baby is gonna come, what, four or five months after mine?”

“Kid, Sandy and Ella are mature, responsible women. They’ll be fine.”

“No, Heyes. There are gonna be two infants in the house at the same time. And Thad not that much older.”

And now Heyes looked alarmed, too. “Maybe we start work on your new house right away? That site on the other side of the apple orchard?”

“Just what I was thinking, Heyes. Just exactly what I was thinking.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With any luck, the reader has figured out why Blaine wrote the letters -- there are hints in the text and Jonathan pretty much says it outright at the end. Blaine is not a bad man, but he snapped when the love of his life died, and everything was all about the wife. I think it goes like this: having heard about the trial, he comes to his senses and makes it up financially to Adelaide and Jonathan. Jonathan is right, and Adelaide remarries within a year, this time to someone who's in love with her, not to someone who loves her as a dear friend as her late husband did. And if you've read the later shorter stories in this series you know that Jed and Sandy have Joshua and Heyes and Ella have Arabella (named after Arabella Mansfield, the first female lawyer in the US) and then more stuff happens. I think Jonathan does end up courting the Heyes' ward Francesca Bird, eventually, but I haven't got there yet . . .


End file.
